


Cold Air

by ScribbleScribe (Sauny)



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Guilt, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:47:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4267350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauny/pseuds/ScribbleScribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spy wants something other than friendship</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Air

**Author's Note:**

> Also here: http://scribblewrites.tumblr.com/post/121149381891/cold-air  
> Edited to make reading easier

They’d been sitting up on his rickety van for an hour, in silence, with the cold biting at his fingers and his nose. In the van it was warm, he thought, warm and with enough blankets to easily wrap around both himself and the Frenchman leaning against his back. It was obviously the more logical place to be, in the middle of winter, and yet he stayed up on the van with his silent friend behind him. 

“Thought you’d wanted ta talk to me about something?” He turned his head, just enough to see the fluff on his pulled up collar. 

“I did.” Smoke coiled above his head, as tentative as his words. Silence passed between them, both staring in hopes the other would break it. The sniper sighed, shifting his shoulder to sit between the spy’s shoulder blades, “Wot is it then?” 

“Hm?” 

“Wot’s the thing you needed to talk ta me about?” He could feel the other exhale, slow and resigned, as the cigarette left his lips. It was a moment before he said anything, busy contemplating the icy chill of the ground beneath them, “What is our relationship to you?” 

“Wot?” 

“What is our relationship to you?” He repeated, turned in his seat to face the same way he was, “What am I to you?” 

The question took him off guard, as did the other man’s open expression, and it sent him into a stutter, “W-well, you’re my friend. My best friend.” 

“Is that all?” Hurt flashed across his expression, barely noticeable, until it was thrown under an expression he couldn’t read, “Only a friend? Nothing more to you than something the scout claims to be with you?” 

“Best friend! I said best friend!” 

“I heard you! That does not make it any better!” He sighed heavily through his nose, cigarette put out in the snow beside him, and held a hand to his face, “I would have thought you’d have held me in higher regard.” 

“Well I’m sorry I can’t read your damn mind!” He threw his hands up, hopeless and frustrated, “What do you want me to say?! That you’re more to me?!” 

“Yes!” He stood, making the sniper fall into silence instantly, “I want sitting out here in the snow to mean more, I want sharing a space while we wait out the rain to mean more! Hell, I’ve shared your bed and yet I am no more than a friend!” An angry huff sent the air in front of him into a miniature blizzard, white air gliding over his face and shaking hand. He stared out into the distance, not once glancing back at the sniper behind him, and cursed silently at himself, at his lack of control, when the only other soul stayed quiet. 

The marksman could only stare, hopeless, and watch the light fade in the distance as his friend became silhouetted by the white clouds. He slowly reached out, with the hesitance of a frightened animal, and let his bare fingers brush against the spy’s own gloved ones. They curled, just slightly, around the numbing fingertips, and only turned to let the other trace the worn patches on the palm of it. He took a few moments, more to steel himself, and let his hand slide into the other’s, more relieved when the hand closed gently around his own. He looked up, at the spy’s back, and quietly spoke, “I don’t know how.” 

The spy turned his head, anger gone in a wave of empathy he wasn’t supposed to feel. With a slow twist, he faced the man, more than his chest exposed to the sniper who held his hand with care, and brought his other hand up to settle on his arm. “Could you try, for me?” 

“Yeah.” He swallowed thickly, unsure if it was the cold or the emotion piling on top of his chest that made him, “Yeah, I think I could.”


End file.
